


midnight cravings and other starry-eyed confessions

by keeper0fthestars



Category: Triple Frontier (2019)
Genre: Anxiety, Dirty Talk, Domestic Fluff, Dorks in Love, Emotions, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Food Play, Love Languages, Porn with Feelings, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Tender smut, cheesy self-indulgence, domestic frankie is utter fucking bliss, frankie morales feels are gonna be the death of me, frankie morales owns my heart send tweet, frankie trusts you enough to let his guard down, questionable activities while baking cookies, soft frankie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:20:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25946494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keeper0fthestars/pseuds/keeper0fthestars
Summary: a series of soft vignettes featuring one Francisco Morales
Relationships: Francisco "Catfish" Morales & Reader, Francisco "Catfish" Morales/You
Comments: 10
Kudos: 54





	midnight cravings and other starry-eyed confessions

Francisco Morales is a man who notices everything. He tucks a blanket around you when you've fallen asleep on the couch. If you're outside together and if he sees goosebumps on your arms, he’ll drape his jacket around your shoulders before you even realize you're cold.

His tendency to do little things for you plays into one of his love languages. He notices when the fuel gauge on your car is low and he'll fill it up for you without saying anything. Not that you can't do it yourself, he knows you can, but the next time you get into your car, you'll try unsuccessfully to hide your smile when you discover he did it for you.

Frankie is a man who finds comfort in your nearness. If he finds you in the kitchen making coffee, two broad arms will wrap around you from behind. If he’s walking through a crowd with you, his hand will rest on the small of your back. If he's sitting beside you at a restaurant, if you're in the car with him, anywhere within arms reach, soft fingertips rest on the inside of your knee, his thumb moving back and forth. In the mornings, there are warm lips on your shoulder and _‘c’ mere baby’_ as he folds you closer to that sleepy thick voice.

He'll drive across town on his day off to bring your favourite treat at work because he knows you have a stressful day ahead. When you get home after a long day, he’ll be there to wrap his arms around you, as if it’s what he’s been waiting for all day long. 

If he's away for the week, he’ll stash away little notes for you to find. He'll surprise you with tickets to see your favourite singer. When you’re under the weather, he'll show up on your doorstep after work with hot soup and honey ginger tea. 

**

He also knows he can count on you. 

It’s getting a single text at the end of the day when you’re leaving work with the words _‘I need you’_

It's the brittle sound of his voice against your neck in the middle of the night. You hold him and talk him down and fight his demons with him when it becomes too hard to do on his own. You never force him to talk about it. When he's ready, he'll tell you and right now, the way his fingers are absently tracing patterns on your bare arm tells you that his guard is down, in the darkness he trusts you. 

He’s getting used to the safety of your arms. He's slowly getting used to the way you pay attention; the way you listen, and actually hear what he's saying. He notices you're not just lying there, waiting to jump in and interrupt the moment he stumbles and falters. He's glad you can't see his eyes right now in the darkness of your bedroom, but at least his voice no longer shakes.

You've made a safe space for him inside your arms and underneath the blankets, he confides in you. He tells you that his neighbours think he’s lazy because he lets his front yard grow out of control when in reality, the smell of fresh-cut grass triggers his PTSD and that’s why he doesn't use the lawnmower as often as he should.

Two days later, he would come home from work to find it all done for him and it sends his heart reeling so hard he thinks he might collapse right there on the driveway.

No one's done anything like this for him before. The fact that you’d done that for him. The fact that _you_ did that. _For him._

You’ve just piled a week’s worth of freshly laundered clothes into a basket to be folded when there’s a knock on your door. Swinging it open, the basket resting on one hip, you see him standing there, still dressed in work clothes, sleeves rolled up, and hands in his pockets. He lifts the brim of his hat to expose a pair of piercing eyes brimming with a desperate emotion you have no name for, his mouth parted slightly, chest caving in like the wind’s been knocked out of him or he’d ran the whole way there. 

“Francisc-,” is all you manage before he wordlessly barrels in, capturing your waist in one arm so fast your stomach lurches. His other hand curves around the back of your neck, his thumb on your jaw, tenderly seizing your lips in a blinding kiss, smothering you, engulfing you with those broad shoulders. The basket of clothes tumbles to the tile floor in your tiny foyer, forgotten. Warm hands cover the expanse of your back as he holds onto you, your spine bending with the force of him. You hear his hat hit the floor softly as he inhales shakily against your neck like his throat is clogged.

Judging by how hard he’s struggling to control his breathing, you might be able to guess why he hasn’t let go of you yet. Melting into his embrace, you breathe him in, combing your fingers through his tousled hair. You smile against the swell of emotion stinging behind your eyelids, your voice shrinking to nothing but a hoarse whisper, _‘you never have to do it again, okay.’_

“Thank you,” he manages with a watery voice, pushing his face into the bottom of your neck. Words fail him but not because he can't talk about his feelings, but because words are too simple to express the depth of emotion he has for you. When you're inside his arms, cradled against his chest, with his lips against your temple, you hear all the things he doesn't say out loud.

**

His love language is handing you a bowl with two scoops of ice cream when you’d only asked for one. He rolls his eyes and kisses the corner of your mouth, saying, _‘you never only want one’_

It’s noticing you're too tired to shower sometimes so, ‘babe, let me help you,’ and he gets in the shower with you and if you want him to, he'll wash your hair because he knows how. 

It's tickle fights and sappy old movies and saving all the red m&m’s for you because he knows those are your favourite. 

He's the man all your friends wish they had.

He's also the man that will casually rest his hand on your thigh under Santiago's crowded dinner table and secretly start tracing letters on your jeans, slowly spelling out what he wants to do to you afterwards. He is enjoying the fact that you're too distracted to finish eating now, and if you so much as look at him, he’ll stop. 

His love language is being in the kitchen late at night, dancing to an old playlist, your soft curves fitted into his solid frame. One of you had a craving for cookies and someone left them in the oven a smidge too long and now they're a little too brown. But it’s not his fault that Andy Kim started singing from the tiny speaker on the table and Frankie needed every inch of you pressed against him and it still wasn’t enough. 

Maybe his jaw accidentally, on purpose, brushed the spot at the bottom of your neck that made goosebumps shiver down your arms. Maybe his mouth lingered on the skin behind your ear and trailed up across your cheekbone, nudging your face upward, his breath mingling with yours.

Maybe his mouth still tasted like the sweet ache of your first orgasm from earlier that evening when you’d left Santiago's place and Frankie couldn't unlock the door of his truck fast enough to nudge you back across the seat, his eyes all dark and hungry like he'd had this on his mind all day. And maybe he did. Maybe he'd parked here at the far end of the block on purpose knowing this dead-end would be dark and quiet at this time of night. His door swung wide, he’d stood between your legs on the broken pavement, using two fingers and a thumb to loosen the button on your jeans, a gruff edge to his voice, _'Lay down for me, baby.’_

His mouth was slow and lazy but his hands were greedy, tugging your jeans down just to your knees, trapping your legs together and lifting them, bending his head underneath your knees, leaving just enough space between your legs for his mouth. 

When you finally do make it to his place, maybe you end up on the couch straddling his lap. 

The only thing better than the slide of your tongue in his mouth is the sweet stretch of you around his cock. He’s fairly certain nothing will ever exist beyond the flare in your eyes when he twitches inside you and he feels every snug inch of you clench tight and wet. 

_‘...so fucking good for me’_

You are unable to move beneath the solid weight of his hands on your hips, his grip on your supple thighs, where they press and dig and tease. He likes it when your fingers are lost in his overgrown curls. 

Something deep in his stomach blazes white and hot when you tell him how fucking good he makes you feel. Seated as deep as he can go, he _rocks_ , fucking into you that little bit further, giving you the friction you need. He likes to bunch the thin fabric of your t-shirt in one fist, yanking it just high enough so he can see how hard your nipples are. 

He wants to chase the deafening arousal in his stomach when you beg him to _‘just please fuck you already.’_

He grins, his breath hot, his voice like gravel right above your ear, _'gimme one more first'_

The sound of your muffled whimper against his mouth nearly sends him over the edge so he slips his thumb down, circling once, twice. Your sharp gasp pulls all the air out of his mouth. He likes the sight of you falling apart; he doesn't even wait for you to come down this time because his favourite thing to do is fuck you through it. One solid hand anchoring your hip firmly in place, the other arm caged across your back, gripping the top of your shoulder for leverage, he finally gives you what you want. 

Eventually, you make it to the bed; his bare legs tangled with yours, his ear resting on your chest. The soothing echo of your heartbeat combined with your fingers sifting through his hair lulls every frayed edge inside his mind. 

He wants your scent in his bed forever. He wants to come home from work to see your car in his driveway; he wants your toothbrush next to his, he wants to go grocery shopping with you, he wants to fall asleep with you curled into him, he wants to wake up every morning and reach for your warmth and leave kisses your on shoulder before he leaves. 

“Frankie,” you whisper. 

“Hmm?”

“I can hear you thinking.”

A soft puff of air escapes his nose, you see his sheepish smile as he nuzzles your t-shirt, tracing his nose along your exposed clavicle. “Is that so?” 

"You can tell me," you offer.

He shifts, propping himself up on one elbow. He’s been laying on you so long that his hair is flattened on one side; there is a crease on his cheek from a seam on your t-shirt. 

He dips his head, craving the softness of your lips, not letting you read what’s on his glass face. In a slow succession of kisses one after another, _I don’t want to live without you,_ he pours forever into your lungs, _you’re my everything._

His mouth is unhurried, slow and sweet like honey. His stubble tickles softly, sending you into a hazy half-awake state where breathing no longer matters. You are nothing without the weight of his body beside you, without the sweet warmth of his lips, without the backs of his fingers tracing the bare skin at your waist. How could you ever define the way you bloom under his touch? An entire lifetime could go by inside this moment, clinging to his ribs, with one hand against the rough side of his jaw, his forehead pressed against yours, and you’d happily allow it. 

All too soon he pulls away. It’s no small feat to open your eyes again but when you do, he’s watching you, his head slanted, one side of his mouth tilting upwards, the curve of it reaching his eye, making it crease. The look in his eyes makes your heart twist.

“What was all that?” you stutter, surprised your voice even works after that.

His words are right there, taking up space in his mouth, he’s never been surer of anything in his life. _Move in with me._

“Let's make cookies,” comes out instead.

Your eyes widen because you know he’s not joking. “NOW?” 

“You’re gonna say no to chocolate chip cookies,” he nips at your neck, _“really?”_

“Dude I don’t think you realize, my legs stopped working like two hours ago.”

“We don’t even have to bake them,” he sits up, throwing his t-shirt over his head, pulling his jeans over his bare ass. He bends down to kiss you again, that boyish grin working its magic, “we can just eat it outta the bowl with a spoon.”

“Fine, but I am _not_ putting pants on.” 

“Even better.” 

He’s managed to keep his hands off you long enough to measure the butter and sugar and flour, and when he’s done mixing, you reach into the bowl for a taste. He tries to swat your hand away. But you're faster. 

Barely. 

'Wanna lick,' teasing him, you twist away with a mouthful of cookie dough. There’s a high-pitched squeal as he snares your waist, pulling you back with frightening speed. 

The hand around your waist playfully digging while you squirm, the devious crinkle around his eyes a reminder that you are powerless against his quiet strength. The single thought sends a low tingle of arousal down your spine. 

With his free hand, he calmly reaches for the bowl on the counter, 'You were saying?' his voice like velvet, low and playful, one eyebrow quirked up, two of his fingers armed with playful retaliation and now you’re laughing so hard no sound is coming out.

'Hey…’ you manage, between breathless giggles, ‘be nice,' struggling to hold his wrist away with both hands, trying to anticipate his next move, the wicked glint in his eyes sends another deep shiver down your back. 

‘Ohhh,’ he hums, ‘I’ll be nice alrigh-,' 

But you don’t give him a chance to finish the thought, distracting him with a wet swipe of your mouth along his bottom lip. 

He melts like a sugar cube on your tongue. 

Taking full advantage of the golden lapse where his brain stutters and stops before he chases your mouth, you pull his fingers into your mouth leaving all the sweetness on your tongue. 

His gaze falls to your mouth, the fingers buried to the knuckle. 

Somewhere between his _‘fuck, you’re such a tease,’_ and your , _‘two can play this game, sweetheart,’_ the walls of his tiny kitchen echo with laughter. At some point, he finally manages to cage you against the counter.

‘Mm,’ he growls against your lips, ‘you taste like chocolate and sex.’ 

You very nearly lose yourself in the dark heat of his eyes. ‘No babe, that’s you.’ 

Surprisingly enough, there's enough cookie dough left for a single pan. The light dusting of cocoa powder on his cheek currently matches the state of your kitchen and now you have twelve minutes to kill before you can take them out of the oven. Leaving the bowls in the sink, he pulls you against him again. 

_'C ‘mere, it’s a good song, dance with me.’_ And well, you're now occupied with the lingering taste of his tongue inside your mouth and you, just, sort of, forget to set the oven timer.

At some point, the small of your back bumps against the wall, your hands tracing the smooth length of his back underneath his t-shirt, slipping down into the back pockets of his jeans, a brand new ache already throbbing where the bulge of his zipper pins you in place, his soft little moan, hotter than _sin._ You feel him twitch against the seam of your panties, his fingers blindly finding the warm skin under your shirt, cupping the weight of bare breasts, thumbs scraping, teasing. The whole world fades away when his eyes darken like this. 

The digital clock on the coffee machine blinks into single digits and you find yourselves sitting on the floor, backs against the cupboards, catching your breath. At some point, the oven was shut off, oven mitts were involved, and you'll never be able to look at double chocolate chip cookies the same way again. Leaning heavily on his shoulder, one bare leg still splayed over his, it takes considerable effort to keep your eyes open. When you look up, there is a tender ache in your chest at the sight of Frankie's mussed hair and permanently flushed cheeks, his eyes drowsy and sweet, shining with a gentleness that takes your breath away.  


He lifts your hand, bringing your knuckles to his warm lips, before ducking down and capturing your mouth with his. Your throat fills with a fierce rush of pastel pink words that make you feel like floating. Foolish words like _always_ and _forever,_ sugary blossoms that dissolve on your tongue and permeate your bloodstream, swapping your heart for a glowing blissful mess. You want to tell him. You want to tell him you cannot live without him. 

Holding a glass of milk, he assures you around a mouthful of cookie still warm from the baking pan, ‘if you dunk the cookie in the milk long enough, you can barely tell they’re burnt.’

And it's fucking perfect.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading, if you liked it, please leave a kudo!
> 
> [the song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SVAsUqVhWFE) playing when they dance in the kitchen


End file.
